She’s so delicate;

dainty; like a spiderweb

spun with brown-black glass.

I lift her with my breath held, as if one wrong move might see her shatter, but she wriggles loose; she floats down like a feather caught in the breeze and lands with a comforting silence. I exhale. She’s fine.

She might look small and fragile but she’s endured much, relying on her hidden reserves of strength. Cookie’s fur is thin in places, evidence of an old flea allergy, and it makes her look older than she is. In truth, she’s scarcely out of kittenhood – but acts with the trepidation of someone who’s seen too much of the world. Her movements are as light as dew upon a grass stem, as silent as the beating of butterfly wings; she wears a natural, well-practised caution, moving tentatively about her pen. It’s a shame to find a young cat who – as far as I can tell, so far – doesn’t know (or feel comfortable) playing. For whom the idea of clambering upon the drapes of a curtain would fill her with dread, or for whom the clattering of a ball-bell brings only widened eyes. It’s sad but also invigorates: I will change this. I will help her find her whimsy – or, more accurately, we will. She is looking for a home who will love her beyond all measure and reason.

Written by Richard Grainger | Animal Care Assistant